At the bend of the way, where the rectory walls skirted the avenue, Dr. Tutterville suddenly stood forth. From afar, and with anxious eyes, the parson and the squire scrutinised each other’s bearing, and it hardly needed the melancholy greeting: “No news!” “No news!” to confirm the impression of failure. The reverend Horatio had, during the last four weeks of anxiety and fruitless search, lost some of his comfortable rotundity, some of his placid ease of manner. The iron grey of his hair had lightened a little more towards silver. He laid his hand upon the rider’s muddy knee and paced beside him towards the house. After a little silence a melancholy converse began. “Wherever the poor child may be,” said the parson, “at any rate you are satisfied that she has not fallen into the hands either of that evil-living man, Colonel Harcourt, or of that light-spirited youth, Mr. Luke Herrick. That at least should be a consolation.” Yet he sighed as he spoke and looked questioningly at the other. But David’s face became still more darkened. “As I wrote to you,” he replied, after a little pause and with a sort of repugnance, “I had Colonel Harcourt’s movements closely traced from the moment of his leaving the ‘Cheveral Arms’ to the moment of our meeting in Richmond Park, and afterwards. Ellinor and he——” He broke off then, with a sudden irritation: “Great God,” he cried, “it was infamous to suspect her of favour to that man.” Dr. Tutterville shook his head. “The best and the purest,” said he, “are often and naturally the most easily deluded, David. I suspect her of nothing more than——” But seeing Sir David wince he did not conclude his phrase. There fell another silence, emphasised by the sucking sound of the horse’s hoofs on the moist pathway and the dripping of the leaves over their heads. Then the rector began again plaintively: “The fair creature had grown into my old heart! Without her Bindon is desolate! At any rate you are satisfied,” he repeated in a tone of the most uncomfortable indecision, “and also as regards Mr. Herrick.” Anger began to creep to the rider’s brow once more. But he mastered himself and answered calmly enough: “My dear doctor, I have written all this to you; do not bring me over the weary ground again. Harcourt is now in bed, being nursed for his second wound. I mentioned, did I not, that he had scarce recovered from the ball I left in his shoulder—ah, doctor, I used to have a steadier hand—before he had a second encounter, this time with Mr. Herrick.”